


Past the places where you might have turned

by linaerys



Category: The Town (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jem's first two years in prison.</p><p>Warnings: It's prison, so there's some violence, although not too graphic. Allusions to non-con. Racist and homophobic slurs. Memories of underage sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past the places where you might have turned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prodigy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/gifts).



> I wrote this on December 24, before finding your prompt during Yuletide Madness, but it seemed from your letter that you found Jem as compelling as a character as I did. I hope this story works for you.

Jem keeps it together until he’s alone in his cell. He got through the proceedings with the public defender and the DA. He aped some remorse over that punk Brendan. He said his goodbyes to Krista. Eighteen and she looked thirty, while Jem still looked like a kid. She’d have it hardest, but Fergie promised he’d take care of her.

Jem knows what taking care of her will probably look like: dealing with a little fucking on the side. She won’t have to turn whore, though, like their ma did after Dad got sent up. Jem made sure of that.

Leaving her was the hardest part, but in a choice between her and Dougie, Dougie wins every time. And he can take care of her—send part of that big NHL paycheck back to her to keep her off the street and in those tiny little tube-tops she wears so well.

Jem’s tough now. He shot another man in the head. Another boy, head on the curb, pleading for his life. Jem felt good when he pulled the trigger—too hard to be scared. He’s scared now. He’s eighteen and alone, in a big concrete building where screams and sighs and noises he doesn’t want to let himself identify echo around.

Dougie leaves tomorrow for training camp. They joked they’d be going up together. Both getting trained. Most of the men in the ‘Town have been sent up a time or two, and they come out tougher, better, more suited to the street, its rhythms and its violence

Jem puts his head down and cries into the gray prison pillow.

**

He’s less alone the next morning in the cafeteria, recognizing neighborhood faces, rivals and friends. Jem remembers some of them from his boyhood, remembers watching them go in and out of Fergie’s shop after hours. Watched them pass packets, chat up his mom after his dad got sent up.

There’s enough of them to keep him safe. One of them is Chuck Angus; he’s the one who killed the Southie punk who killed Jem’s dad. Jem pays his respect and Chuck sets him up moving dope to the Latin gang, kicking back a hefty tax.

He learns how to palm a bag, how to make a shiv, how to skim a little product and not get caught. He learns too what shifts of eyes and changes in tone volume in the yard and the mess mean. He knows when something’s gonna come down.

He was worried about rape, because who doesn’t grow up on the stories, but it doesn’t seem like there’s too much of that, least not among the ‘Town boys. There’s loners of course, the weak, the faggot sissy boys who get picked on like they want it. And Chuckie’s got a skinny blond kid who goes everywhere with him.

I’m Trevor, he tells Jem, but Jem can smell the weakness on him, and he pushes Trevor away. That stink is contagious and he doesn’t want Chuckie looking at him the same way.

**

At night he thinks about Dougie, slapping pucks and fucking groupies. If he helped get Dougie there, he’s happy to be here. Doug was always too good for the Town. Somehow it slid off him, while Jem’s still swimming in it.

Dougie. He moved in with them when he was thirteen. Jem and Krista were ten, fighting like cats and dogs, no room for any other in their little world. But Doug made them both shine. Jem ruled the street when Doug walked next to him. And Krista couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

Not then, not now. Jem didn’t know when they started fucking, but he knows when he first saw it. He was fourteen, and still a kid, but Krista had turned into a woman overnight. She wore tight tank-tops that she spilled out of, and made Jem blush to look at her.

Even more after he saw them together on Dougie’s bed, mostly Doug’s naked back, with Krista’s long, tan legs wrapped around him. He held her up, his big hands splayed over her flanks. He didn’t look real, so long and tapered and muscled, making noises that Jem had only heard in pornos or from his mother’s bedroom before he clapped hands over his ears.

He could have done the same then, and later picked a fight with Doug that Doug would let him win, but instead he watched. He watched again another night. And now he can watch anytime he wants, behind his eyelids, with his hand wrapped around his dick, blocking out the sounds of the prison with his own breathing, and Doug’s voice in his head, and his sister saying yes, yes, yes.

**

Jem’s round cheeks don’t go away—they never will—but a year in the prison gym turns puppy fat into a man’s muscle, and then into an impressive bulge of bicep that Jem likes to rub when no one’s looking. He’s getting trained up in here.

Chuckie replaces Trevor with another skinny kid, and Jem relaxes a little more. Chuckie won’t pick him.

There are long stretches of boredom punctuated by the drama of another Southie kid coming up, another Townie in solitary, balances of power shifting. Jem makes his mark as the first to start a fight, the last to leave. He learns how to take a man’s punch and keep fighting. He learns how to carry a blade in his fist and not get cut.

And then Connor arrives.

It’s the same day as Jem sends a black kid to the infirmary with a busted skull. Fractured orbital. It’s what the guard says when he throws Jem in the hole. The words rattle around in his head for the whole month he’s in there.

Orbital. Kid wasn’t keeping up payments for the product he put into his vein. Had to learn a lesson.

Orbital. Like him and Krista, both in Doug’s orbit. He’s gone and both of them careen off track. She visited a few months ago, looking a little red around the nostrils, like she’s putting some of Fergie’s product up her nose.

Kris, says Jem, but he doesn’t say more. He left her out there alone, and Dougie left both of them.

He gets out, dirty and reeking, hands crusted with shit and spunk and whatever’s left on the floor of that place. He showers and goes back to his cell. Something’s changed.

**

Connor’s connections to the ‘Town are slim, but he’s worked them well enough to have taken over Jem’s beat while Jem was out. Jem hears this and greets him with a heavy shove, shoulder to shoulder.

Just keepin’ it warm for you, says Connor. He’s tall and lanky: greyhound to Jem’s bulldog. Dark too, with black eyes and heavy brows.

He’s not Dougie, nothing close, Jem will admit to himself later, when everything goes to shit. Dougie’s smarter than Connor, quicker with the sarcasm, the Townie flash, the trash-talking that makes them brothers. Maybe Dougie sees through Jem where Connor doesn’t. Maybe Jem likes that about Connor.

But Connor’s got the same look-at-me quality that Doug does, the wide shoulders and narrow waist, the eyes you want looking at you.

Respect, I like it, says Jem. ‘Sthere a piece you can give ‘im? he asks Chuckie. And Chuckie does. A smaller piece. But he’s a better salesman than Jem, and his piece grows.

Jem doesn’t mind. He likes seeing talent at work.

Maybe Connor’s a little soft, though. Some of his Latins get out of line, start reselling the stuff, cut down further with sugar from the mess. Connor tells Jem rather than letting it get back to Chuckie, and they go to take care of it together.

Jem carries a bar pried off his bed to the corner where the punks hang out. He signals Chuckie to keep the guards off him.

You done this before? he asks Connor, who looks more nervous than he should.

We, ah, didn’t fight much where I’m from.

Where’s that? Jem asks, ‘cause Connor lets everyone think he’s street, but it’s not too convincing. Jem doesn’t wait for an answer. Tell me later.

He hands Connor the bar. He can use his fists on these spics.

He pops one of them in the jaw. Dude’s hard though, and barely reacts. He takes a swing that Jem ducks, and Jem shoves straight fingers into his stomach. That takes him down, at least long enough for Jem’s kicks to keep him there.

Connor and the other one dance around each other. Mariano. He’s skinny, but hard. You can’t judge by weight or size. Sometimes the little ones are the most vicious. Connor’s holding the bar like it might bite him, but he tightens his grip when he sees Jem’s already downed his man.

Jem offers: you want me to hold him while you hit him? Connor shakes his head and wipes the sweat off his upper lip. No point fighting fair in prison. Or anywhere.

He pins Mariano’s arms behind his back. Mariano wriggles like an eel, but Jem holds tight—wriggle too much, Mariano will dislocate a shoulder. Jem tells Connor: hit him already, guards are coming.

Connor closes his eyes when he swings. Mariano’s temple explodes in blood. Jem drops him and grabs Connor so they can melt into the crowd.

Connor’s shaking when they get to the lonely corridor that leads to the pantry. Jem says, you really haven’t done that before, have you? Puts a hand on the back of Connor’s neck so he can rock him back and forth, a little rough so Connor knows he’s one of the guys now, don’t be a pussy.

Jem can’t even remember his first fight anymore, the first time his fists found blood. Connor raises his head and tips it back against the wall.

Don’t hesitate next time, Jem tells him. You gotta get angry. Those punks are taking something from you. From Chuckie. That shit can’t stand. He’s still massaging Connor’s neck, like Connor’s about to go back into the ring. Maybe that’s why Connor moves his hand the few inches it takes to connect with Jem’s dick and starts rubbing.

What the fuck? You some kind of faggot? Jem half-wispers, half-yells.

I just want to, says Connor. Let me.

He’s as confident now as he wasn’t in the fight. And he’s beautiful. And he wants to. Maybe that’s the way he looks at all the marks who buy Chuckie’s drugs from him, like he’s saying: You gonna say no? To me? You know how lucky you are I want to sell you this? That I want to give you a minute of my time?

Jem doesn’t say no either. He says sure, whatever. But it’s not _whatever_ when Connor’s hot mouth is around his cock, it’s fucking awesome. It’s a glimpse of sky above the gray walls. A dangerous piece of hope.

**

Nothing much changes after that, except Connor is a little freer with his fists, walking taller, taking no shit. Sucking Jem off every day in abandoned corners. Jem can’t get enough of it. Whenever he and Connor aren’t together, he’s thinking about him, except at night. Nights still belong to Dougie.

He can’t figure Connor, either. Connor’s not some faggot bitch who needs a big man to take care of him. And Jem’s low enough on the totem pole still, he wouldn’t be that man.

Fuck, Connor, why do you do it? He finally asks.

Because you fucking want it so bad, says Connor, with a sideways grin.

He does, God, he does. Connor’s fingers around his nuts, Connor’s mouth on him. He wants this, he wants—fuck.

What he wants slams into him like coke high, like his body’s taken over by something else, something that wants Doug—no, _Connor_ , definitely Connor, fucking him, big hands over his hips. Fucking him and wanting him and possessing him.

Don’t you want—I don’t know—something else? Jem looks a challenge at Connor.

Yeah, says Connor, licking his lips. I want to fuck you. And you want me to. I’m just waiting for you to figure it out.

Jem’s figured it out, oh yeah, but instead he says without much heat: fuck you, ya faggot, you’re not sticking anything in me. Eyes pleading, though, he can feel the expression on his face. Don’t believe me.

Connor doesn’t. He does what he hasn’t before, and kisses Jem hard. It’s not even a kiss; it’s Connor’s mouth fucking owning his. It’s Jem giving it up, opening up, so easily, like a little bitch. My room, rec time, he tells Jem. Be there.

**

Rec time is the two hours after dinner before lights out, cells locked. Connor’s is at the end of a corridor, under a busted light that Connor makes sure stays busted. It’s as private as they’re likely to get.

Jem wrestles with it all day. He’s going. He’s not going. His stomach ties itself pleasurable knots.

He goes though, just so he can tell Connor it’s not happening. He’s not some pussy who wants a big dick in him, pounding him, making him scream. Connor’s got the wrong idea.

Connor just smirks. He doesn’t need to tell Jem he’s full of shit, just show him, with fingers and tongue, and oil stolen from the kitchen to slick him wide and open.

He jacks Jem off when he’s inside him. Say my name, Jem tells him, say it. I want to hear it. And Connor does, saying it over and over like a prayer. Fucking Jem until he wants to scream with it, but they can’t be heard, so Connor puts a big hand over his mouth and Jem bites the base of his thumb bloody. When he comes, it feels like the end of the world.

**

He’s so sure someone’s going to know, he beats up a couple other Latins just make sure no one knows he’s a big pussy now, a bitch who just wants Connor to fuck him again, as soon as his asshole stops feeling like it’s on fire. It hurts, but he even likes that, because it says Connor was fucking him, and he’s gonna do it again.

Connor shows Jem how to fuck him. He’s so tight and hot. His long back arches and ripples when Jem fucks him, and it’s almost as good as getting fucked. Almost.

You two are tight, says Chuckie one day. Thought he was just a punk kid, but he can move product.

Jem shrugs and smirks, trying not to let it turn into the big, stupid grin it wants to. Born salesman, says Jem.

You watch him, says Chuckie. Not sure he’s on the up and up. So Jem tells him that Connor might be moving extra product, but don’t worry, he still kicks the right amount upstairs to Chuckie.

He doesn’t count how long it lasts until later. How many times Connor’s hands leave bruises on his hips. How many bites mark his shoulders. How many times he begs for it when Connor fucks him with his fingers. Later there is time to count. Now there’s just—now.

**

Connor’s end comes fast. Jem never sees it coming. He’s feeding info to the guards, says Chuckie. He’s gonna sell for the Southies when they take us out.

Jem, who was happy to have been invited to this meeting of upper management, freezes. There’s a rushing in his ears.

Did you know about this? Chuckie is asking.

Jem shakes his head. Didn’t know nothing. You want me to do him? His voice sounds very far away.

Chuckie shakes his head, but Jem still can’t breathe. He doesn’t know if he’s more scared he couldn’t do it, or that he could.

It happens in the mess. Group of guys surround him, someone has a shiv, a long one, sharpened razor keen. Someone jabs him once in the guts, but that’s not a sure enough death. Or fast enough.

Because Connor has time to look over the Townie heads and find Jem. He has time to scream Jem’s name before they cut his throat. He has time to see Jem look away.

Fucking traitor, says Jem when Chuckie tells him later that Jem’s taking over Connor’s beat. There’s some Southie kids who need a tune-up. Jem’s raring to give it to them.

He keeps it together until he’s alone in his cell, hands busted and bruised from pounding faces. Someone had to haul him off the redheaded Southie kid before Jem killed him. Tomorrow he’s gonna be put in the hole. He welcomes it. He’ll be alone in there, just him and Dougie. Dougie, who’ll never fall to Connor’s level. Dougie will never betray him.


End file.
